


Window

by eternalshiva



Series: Dragon Age: Misc [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Mages and Templars, No Dialogue, practice in imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:31:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalshiva/pseuds/eternalshiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She takes her spoon and scrapes, chipping at first, trying to unfold its layers, peeling away the winter’s handiwork. Her breath, warm and steady, blows gently onto the pane, turning the ice to vapour, assaulting the beauty and grace of the hoarfrost. Gentle rubbing helps the process, she doesn’t dare use magic, and white glass becomes dark and clear. </p><p>(A mage keeps hidden, but the Templars... The Templars always find them). Practice in imagery, no dialogue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Window

Winter’s frozen breath whispers through the streets of Denerim, spreading throughout the silence, warning the dead of night. It slips through the alleys, over the cobblestone streets and past the shops. Its melancholy dulls the senses. The night sounds retreat and cold cracks against the rotted walls of her small sanctuary. The cold touches everyone and everything. The wind searches out the secret places, tracking warmth, seeking heat to chill. 

The frigid air whitewashes the walls, tossing gleaming crystal prism in scattered splotches upon the frozen roads that any mage would envy. Upon her dirty window, the delicate lace curtains glues to brittle glass, fused by nature’s kiss. 

This is our world: cold, solid, fragile. A world where windows, splashed in vulgar red paint carry the hated word “Apostate”, can be covered by mother nature in the flick of a wrist and a touch of flame. This world lives beyond these walls and her window; a butterfly in winter. 

Her attic window fogs, the shop below is quiet, the sign above the door swings, encrusted in ice and creaking with the wind. The inconsistent silence of the world outside did not wake her, nor did the fear of discovery. She woke because she loves this time of morning, it begs the day to come forth, even in winter it calls the dawn, promising the renewal of life with the birth of a new day. 

The window of her world steams and slowly paints intricate patterns, layering itself, weaving itself into a fine Orlesian lace. No light could penetrate it. The glass became a canvas, splattered with light and shadow, pressing life into the piece of heated sand. 

Dawn approached, the cold retreating with the first speck of daybreak and the city begins to stir. The market will be open soon, she can see the stacks of smoke on the horizon as the ovens are lit, she can picture the flour being sifted and the lard thawing on the counters. The sounds reach her here, low at first then louder as the marketplace fills with vendors. Her window is still thick with frost and it refuses to release its burden -- she needs to see. 

She needs to see the people enjoy their own routines, the joy of a normal life that isn’t tainted with the flicker of the fade at their fingertips. 

She scrapes at it, its cold to the touch and the thickness makes her hands go numb. Her nails aren’t enough. She takes her spoon and scrapes, chipping at first, trying to unfold its layers, peeling away the winter’s handiwork. Her breath, warm and steady, blows gently onto the pane, turning the ice to vapour, assaulting the beauty and grace of the hoarfrost. Gentle rubbing helps the process, she doesn’t dare use magic, and white glass becomes dark and clear. 

The street unfolds before her. 

As the small circle grows, she can see the barrels filled with goods rolled into place, fish placed into bins since the cold will assure their freshness. She smiles when she sees the merchants banter about, ready for another day. 

The cold is stubborn; clear becomes white as she works. 

Dawns hits and her window is free, the sun distorts the glass with wisps of steam as the air condenses into dew. Her long sleeves wipes dry the panel and she sees a silent road. People stand, rooted in place, mouth agape  and fear driven into their souls. 

Horses neigh and a torrent of Templars break through the crowd. The thunder of their metal boots flatten the thawing frost, their guttural tones of orders hit her like a hammer. The staccato beat of fists pounding against the wooden door of the shop is short and then the crashing sound of splintering wood confirms her fear. 

Furniture is tossed aside, the pottery smashes on the ground and glass shatters in their valiant search of the apostate. They knock the walls to find her hatch, listening for the tell tale hollow thump of an empty space. 

Thump, thump, thump, thump,  _thunk_.

They have come. 


End file.
